THE EDINBURGH LIONS—LITERARY CELEBRITIES—JEFFREY IN THE FORUM—SIR WALTER AT THE DESK—RIDING WITH SCOTCH LADIES—BEAUTIFUL SCENERY—A SCOTCH MIST.

Edinburgh was then decidedly the literary metropolis of the three kingdoms; not through the amount of its productions, but their superiority. I had several letters of introduction; among them one to Blackwood; another to Constable; another to Miss Y——. The latter proved fortunate. Her father was a Writer to the Signet; an elderly gentleman of excellent position, and exceedingly fond of showing off "Auld Reekie." Well, indeed, might he be; for of all the cities I have seen, it is, in many respects, the most interesting. I am told it is gloomy in winter; but now it was summer. And in these high latitudes, nature makes ample amends in this season for the gloom and inclemency of the winter.

The day after delivering my letters, Mr. Y—— called on me, and showed me the lions of the town. Many of them—all, indeed—were interesting; but I pass them by, and shall only linger a short time at the Court of Sessions, which is the supreme civil court of Scotland. This, with the High Court of Justiciary—the supreme criminal court—forms the College of Justice, and constitutes the supreme tribunal of Scotland. Their sessions are held in the old Parliament House, situated in the centre of the Old Town.

We entered a large Gothic hall, opening, as I observed, into various contiguous apartments. Here I saw a considerable number of persons, mostly lawyers and their clients; some sauntering, some meditating, some gathered in groups and conversing together. There was a large number of people distributed through the several apartments, and in the grand hall there was a pervading hum of voices, which rose and rumbled, and died away amid the groinings of the roof above.

Among the persons in this hall, a man some thirty years of age, tall and handsome, dressed in a gown, but without the wig, attracted my particular attention. He was walking apart, and there was a certain look of coldness and haughtiness about him. Nevertheless, for some undefinable reason, he excited in me a lively curiosity.

"Who is that gentleman?" said I, to my guide.

"That large, noble-looking person, with a gown and wig? That is Cranstoun, one of our first lawyers, and the brother-in-law of Dugald Stuart."

"No: that person beyond, and to the left? He is without a wig."

"Oh, that's Cockburn; a fiery Whig, and one of the keenest fellows we have at the bar."

"Yes: but I mean that younger person near the corner."

"Oh, that small, red-faced, freckled man? Why, that's Moncrief; a very sound lawyer. His father, Sir Harry Moncrief, is one of the most celebrated divines in Scotland."

"No, no; it is that tall, handsome, proud-looking person, walking by himself."

"Oh, I see: that's Lockhart, Sir Walter Scott's son-in-law. Would you like to know him?"

"Yes."

And so I was introduced to a man who, at that time, was hardly less an object of interest to me than Scott himself. Though a lawyer by profession, he had devoted himself to literature, and was now in the very height of his career. Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk, Valerius, and other works, had given him a prominent rank as a man of talent; and, besides, in 1820, he had married the eldest daughter of the "Great Unknown." My conversation with him was brief at this time, but I afterwards became well acquainted with him.

My guide now led me into one of the side-rooms, where I saw a judge and jury, and a lawyer addressing them. The latter was a very small man, without gown or wig, apparently about forty years of age, though he might be somewhat older. He was of dark complexion, with an eye of intense blackness, and almost painfully-piercing expression. His motions were quick and energetic, his voice sharp and penetrating; his general aspect exciting curiosity rather than affection. He was speaking energetically, and as we approached the bar my conductor said to me, in a whisper, "Jeffrey!"

We paused, and listened intently. The case in itself seemed dry enough: something, I believe, about a stoppage in transitu. But Jeffrey's pleading was admirable; clear, progressive, logical. Occasionally, in fixing upon a weak point of his adversary, he displayed a leopard-like spring of energy, altogether startling. He seized upon a certain point in the history of the case, and insisted that the property in question rested at that period in the hands of the defendant's agent, for at least a fortnight. This he claimed to be fatal to his adversary's plea. Having stated the facts, with a clearness which seemed to prove them, he said, turning with startling quickness upon his antagonist,—"Now, I ask my learned brother to tell me, what was the state of the soul during that fortnight?" To a jury of Scotch Presbyterians, familiar with theological metaphysics, this allusion was exceedingly pertinent and effective.

We passed into another room. Three full-wigged judges were seated upon a lofty bench, and beneath them, at a little table in front, was a large man, bent down and writing laboriously. As I approached, I caught a side-view of his face. There was no mistaking him: it was Sir Walter himself!

Was it not curious to see the most renowned personage in the three kingdoms sitting at the very feet of these men: they the court, and he the clerk? They were indeed all "lords," and their individual names were suggestive to the ear: one was Robertson, son of the historian of Charles V.; another was Gillies, brother of the renowned Grecian scholar of that name; another, Mackenzie, son of the author of the Man of Feeling. These are high titles; but what were they to the author of Waverley?

Mr. Y—— introduced me to him at once, breaking in upon his occupation with easy familiarity. As he arose from his seat, I was surprised at his robust, vigorous frame. He was very nearly six feet in height, full-chested, and of a farmer-like aspect. His complexion seemed to have been originally sandy, but now his hair was grey. He had the rough, freckled, weather-beaten skin of a man who is much in the open air; his eye was small and grey, and peering out keenly and inquisitively from beneath a heavy brow, edged with something like grey, twisted bristles: the whole expression of his face, however, was exceedingly agreeable.

He greeted me kindly, the tone of his voice being hearty, yet with a very decided Scotch accent. A few commonplace remarks, and one or two inquiries as to my acquaintance with American literary men, was all that passed between us on this occasion; but subsequently, as will be seen, I was more highly favored.

One morning I found a note at my hotel, from Miss Y——, inviting me to breakfast. I went at ten, and we had a pleasant chat. She then proposed a ride, to which I acceded. She was already in her riding-habit; so without delay we went forth, calling first upon Mrs. Russell. She led us into another room, and there, on the floor, in a romp with her two boys, was Francis Jeffrey! Think of the first lawyer in Scotland, the lawgiver of the great republic of letters throughout Christendom, having a rough-and-tumble on the floor, as if he were himself a boy! Let others think as they will, I loved him from that moment; and ever after, as I read his criticisms, cutting and scorching as they often were, I fancied that I could still see a kind and genial spirit shining through them all. At least it is certain that, behind his editorial causticity, there was in private life a fund of gentleness and geniality which endeared him to all who enjoyed his intimacy. I was now introduced to him, and he seemed a totally different being from the fierce and fiery gladiator of the legal arena, where I had before seen him. His manners were gentle and gentlemanly: polite to the ladies and gracious to me.

We found Mrs. Russell in a riding-dress, and prepared to accompany us in our excursion. Taking leave of Mr. Jeffrey, we went to the stable, and having mounted, walked our steeds gently out of the town by Holyrood, and to the east of Arthur's seat, leaving Portobello on the left. We rode steadily, noting a few objects as we passed, until at last, reaching an elevated mound, we paused, and the ladies directed my attention to the scenes around. We were some two miles south of the town, upon one of the slopes of the Braid Hills. What a view was before us! The city, a vast smoking hive, to the north; and to the right, Arthur's Seat, bald and blue, seeming to rise up and almost peep into its streets and chimneys. Over and beyond all was the sea. The whole area between the point where we stood and that vast azure line, blending with the sky, was a series of abrupt hills and dimpling valleys, threaded by a network of highways and byways; honeycombed in spots by cities and villages, and elsewhere sprinkled with country seats.

It is an unrivalled scene of varied beauty and interest. The natural site of Edinburgh is remarkable, consisting of three rocky ledges, steepling over deep ravines. These have all been modified by art; in one place a lake has been dried up, and is now covered with roads, bridges, tenements, gardens, and lawns. The sides of the cliffs are in some instances covered with masses of buildings, occasionally rising tier above tier—in one place presenting a line of houses a dozen stories in height! The city is divided by a deep chasm into two distinct parts: the Old Town, dark and smoky, and justifying the popular appellation of "Auld Reekie;" the other, the New Town, with the fresh architecture and the rich and elaborate embellishments of a modern city. Nearly from the centre of the Old Town rises the Castle, three hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea; on one side looking down almost perpendicularly, two hundred feet into the vale beneath; on the other, holding communication with the streets by means of a winding pathway. In the new town is Calton Hill, rich with monuments of art and memorials of history. From these two commanding positions the views are unrivalled.

But I forget that I have taken you to the Braid Hills. My amiable guides directed my attention to various objects—some far and some near, and all with names familiar to history, or song, or romance. Yonder mass of dun and dismal ruins was Craigmillar Castle, once the residence of Queen Mary. Nearly in the same direction, and not remote, is the cliff, above whose bosky sides peer out the massive ruins of Roslin Castle; further south are glimpses of Dalkieth Palace, the sumptuous seat of the Duke of Buccleuch; there is the busy little village of Lasswade, which takes the name of "Gandercleugh" in the Tales of my Landlord; yonder winds the Esk, and there the Galawater—both familiar in many a song; and there is the scenery of the Gentle Shepherd, presenting the very spot where that inimitable colloquy took place between Peggy and her companion Jenny,—

While we were surveying these scenes the rain began to fall in a fine, insinuating mizzle; soon large drops pattered through the fog, and at last there was a drenching shower. I supposed the ladies would seek some shelter; not they: accustomed to all the humors of this drizzly climate, and of course defying them. They pulled off their green veils, and stuffed them into their saddle-pockets: then chirruping to their steeds, they sped along the road, as if mounted on broomsticks. I was soon wet through, and so, doubtless, were they. However, they took to it as ducks to a pond. On we went, the water—accelerated by our speed—spouting in torrents from our stirrups. In all my days I had never such an adventure. And the coolness with which the ladies took it, that was the most remarkable. Indeed, it was provoking; for as they would not accept sympathy, of course they could not give it, though my reeking condition would have touched any other heart than theirs. On we went, till at last, coming to the top of the hill, we suddenly cropped out into the sunshine, the shower still scudding along the valley beneath us. We continued our ride, getting once more soaked on our way, and again drying in the sun. At last we reached home, having made a circuit of fifteen miles. Scarcely a word was said of the rain. I saw the ladies to their residences, and was thankful when I found myself once more in my hotel.

As a just moral of this adventure, I suggest to any American, who may ride with Scotch ladies around Edinburgh, not to go forth in his best dress-coat, and pantaloons without straps.